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November 1814

Lloyd spent an abundant amount of time staring at men’s groins. No one had yet accused him of being a molly—although there was some truth in that claim—because everyone knew he was staring at their watches. It was just his good fortune that the current fashion meant fob chains were attached to one’s breaches and were situated neatly beside one’s groin, almost as if to draw attention to one’s family jewels. Tonight, he was searching for Lord Hedwick who had a Vulliamy or so he assumed given that people continued to introduce him to them. None of that mattered. Legend said there were only 126 Hobart watches in existence, and he’d never seen one, only illustrations of them with the very distinct Guillochage engraving pattern that told him exactly what the watch was. His fingers tingled and his breath quickened. He had to know who the owner of the watch was. “And may I ask who your companion is?”

“Mr Gilbert, at your service.” The man’s tenor tones sent a shiver of delight down Lloyd’s spine. A different sort of shiver to being excited about the Hobart; goodness. A voice like that and a stunning rare watch.

“I am interested in your watch.” Possibly more than that, but the watch mattered most.

“You and your watches,” Lady Sarah tittered, and he bit back an impatient sigh as her comment jerked him back into society. Yes, he was a little obsessive about his hobby, but he didn’t think it deserved to be joked about. His expertise would soon be of use to Lady Sarah’s father, after all.

“It is not for sale.” Mr Gilbert had an economy with his words that Lloyd admired.

“Nonsense,” Lord Hedwick made a cruel sounding laugh. “Everything about you is for sale.”

Even Lloyd knew that was a rude comment and he glanced at Mr Gilbert who shrugged lightly as the insult couldn’t touch him. At times like this, he wished he had more understanding of social graces, and could say the right thing to ease the tension.

“It is a distinctive example.” He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the watch, certain that it was a Hobart, dating back at least thirty years. He needed to hold it and examine it. “May I?”

“No.” Mr Gilbert turned away. “Lady Sarah, would you like to dance?”

Before Lloyd had a chance to say anything, Lady Sarah had taken Mr Gilbert’s arm and the group dispersed, leaving him standing rather awkwardly beside Lord Hedwick.

“Mr Gilbert may have won this battle, but he won’t win the war.” Lord Hedwick spoke nonsense, so Lloyd ignored it. He’d learned it was easier to ignore illogical comments, rather than ask for clarification because people’s explanations usually only increased his lack of understanding.

“The Vulliamy or... was Mr Gilbert rude because Lord Hedwick was rude first? If it wasn’t for the Hobart, he wouldn’t care for the puzzle of why people interacted the way they did.

“Lady Sarah’s hand. She is a prize, my Lord, if I do say so myself, and while some competition will keep you honest, Mr Gilbert's flashy new wealth is not enough to overcome his lack of breeding.”

Lloyd wasn’t sure what the etiquette was in this situation. “I have no opinion on Mr Gilbert—” It wasn’t true; the man was handsome in a reserved way that appealed to his own reticent nature, and he owned a Hobart. The man intrigued him. “—And I’ve yet to spend enough time with Lady Sarah to determine if she will suit.” He finally remembered the right phrasing.

“She will suit. She has been raised to be a peer’s wife.”

Her and many others. Lloyd wasn’t opposed to marrying a woman, he had no particular preference either way, and it would certainly be an easier path than falling in love with a man. But he wanted what his parents had; a proper love story. He wanted to fall like his father had, to find someone he could share a life with, who he would love and adore and know everything about. Someone to laugh with and travel with and die with. Damn it. Tears prickled the back of his eyes, as they always did when he thought about his parents.

“I would never allow her to stoop as low as someone like Mr Gilbert.”

Lloyd cleared his throat. “Love doesn’t ask for permission, my lord.”

“Love. What has love to do with the correct union?”

“Excuse me, Hedwick.” Lloyd needed to leave before he said the wrong thing. Love had everything to do with it. He could feel the tightness welling up in his chest and throat, a familiar sign that he’d learned to pay attention to. The room was too hot, claustrophobic, as he walked away, to nowhere in particular, simply to get away from feeling overwhelmed. The problem with these social events was the vast number of people. He kept his gaze low; a Barrow, a Pinchbeck, a Graham, three LeNoir’s, the Leichti owned by Lord Harrington purchased from Lloyd’s mother’s family three seasons ago, and the Hobart. The Hobart. He gasped as he glanced up.

“Mr Gilbert.”

“Yes?”

“I thought you were dancing with Lady Sarah.”

“I was.”

Lloyd made himself take a breath and look at his surroundings. They were in a narrow hallway beside the ballroom, and he wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up here. “And now you are not. I see.”

“Yes.”

“May I please take a look at your pocket watch?” He needed to hold the rare item with a craving that made his limbs twitch, and his eyes feel too big for his face.

“Why?”